Clueless Idiot Review: Sportsguy

by James MacLaren

Yet another sterling example of how it’s impossible to underestimate 90

percent of the population. Sportsguy.

You’ve seen ‘em, they’re all over the damn place. You couldn’t get away

from them if you tried.

Team logos plastered all over every damn thing they own. Clothing,

automobiles, beercoolers, pets, children, you name it. Sportsguy thinks

having something as doofy as “Jets” tattooed across his upper arms in

four inch high letters is COOL.

Or at least as far as Sportsguy is able to think, which is none too

far.

Sportsguy is a product of our educational institutions, and the shoddy

workmanship shows from top to bottom.

And what the hell’s up with school sports in the first place anyhow?

What EXACTLY do the endless hours spent organizing idiots into squads

of Baseballguys or Footballguys or Cheerleaders actually DO?

Here’s a perfect example of wasted effort on a Grand Scale: You corral

young people in their millions far and wide across This Great Land Of

Ours, more or less lock them into smallish rooms for the greater part

of the day, set things up inside those rooms so that the young people

are FORCED into listening to what YOU want them to listen to, and then

you squander the potential of the entire operation by putting them in

the hands of idiot P.E. coaches and other anti-evolved life forms so

they can spend all their mental and physical coin on playing a

completely meaningless game that exactly nobody (excepting other

Sportsguys) gives a rat’s ass about.

What the FUCK is up with that?!?

A perfectly good coercive opportunity wasted!

A chance to FORCE people to learn to read and write against their wills

gone aglimmering for the greater glory of… what? Beats the hell out

of me, what, that’s what.

Hell, I’d be happy enough if you were coercing the little darlings into

most ANYTHING except sports. Wanna turn the lot of ‘em into Komsomols

or perhaps a Brigade of Junior Nazis? Fine and dandy. Psychotic commies

and Nazis at least DO something. Maybe they do something wrong once in

a while, but at least they’re DOING something.

Sportsguy doesn’t do ANYTHING.

Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nuthin!!

The useless motherfucker spends the first quarter of his life

pointlessly running around out there on the field with all his

Sportsguy buddies and teammates like a swarm of lemmings on meth, and

then pays back the debt by sprawling on the couch staring mindlessly

into the tv in a beerstained t-shirt for the remaining pointless three-quarters of said life. Unless his pointless existence is cut

prematurely short from the effects of all the beer, pretzels, and pizza

he’s been shoving down his esophagus with wild abandon all those years.

For somebody who’s completely in the thrall of points in the first

place, this is a cruel irony, if not an undeserved one.

Sportsguy starts out as a wildly popular kinda guy in high school

(assuming he makes the team, that is), remains popular in college

(should he make it that far, which most of them do NOT), and then

suddenly drops off the radar screen as the nerds and dorks who stuck

around long enough to master the basics of sentence structure and

mathematical expression move in and take their rightful place as the

Masters of the World.

Sportsguy never quite knows what hit him and is left with a lifetime of

barely covering the bills with the proceeds from his shitty job to

ponder the meaning of it all.

Except that Sportsguy is SUCH an idiot that he’s incapable of pondering

anything more meaningful than the point spread for next week’s matchup.

The dumb fuck NEVER gets over the shit. It’s in his blood to stay and

that’s that.

As a child he exercised his pathetic little brain sufficiently to

understand the Rules of the Game and the difference between “us” and

“them” and then grew weary of the whole enterprise and swore off

thinking for the remainder of his life.

And from childhood on, that’s the sum and total of his existence.

Sports.

What a tired, crabbed, little universe it must be, and yet Sportsguy

can never seem to get enough of it.

The same fucking thing over and over, weekend after weekend, endlessly,

mindlessly, brainnumbingly the same same same same same!

Arrrrgggghhhh, it’s making me go nuts just to have to WRITE about it!

And it’s not enough that Sportsguy has poisoned his OWN life, he has to

go and poison everybody else’s life too!

Sportsguy is an evangelical bastard, on an equal footing with the most

wild-eyed religious fanatics that have ever walked the face of the

earth.

The fucker wants YOU to be a Sportsguy TOO!!

And he wants it BAD!!

For myself, I’d prefer another round of Jehovah’s Witnesses at the

front door to Sportsguy. You can at least hold some sort of minimal

conversation with the Jeezowhacks. With Sportsguy, you get nothing much

beyond, “How ‘bout them dawgs?” To my way of thinking, that does NOT

qualify as a “conversation.”

But Sportsguy BELIEVES in “them dawgs” and he wants you to believe too.

Fuck you Sportsguy, I ain’t having ANY of your shit.

Fortunately for Sportsguy, this isn’t a problem.

Sportsguy doesn’t need me.

He’s got all the company he could ever ask for without any help from

me, thank you very much.

Sportsguy has the backing of the media, the “educational” system, large

corporations, the government, and most religions.

No small operation that, eh?

I’m not inclined to believe in things like the Trilateral Commission

and other cabala, but if anything was to strike a resonant

conspiratorial chord in my psyche, it would have to be This Nation’s

peculiar relationship with Organized Sports, from kindergarten on up.

If I was an Evil Dictator, desirous of having a sufficiently docile

population that it could never rise up against me, I would be mightily

inclined toward keeping that population as stupid as possible, yes?

And what better way to keep people stupid than by dominating their

every waking thought with something so retarded, so irrelevant, so

USELESS, that it would render them incapable of putting together a

rebellion?

And, as a special bonus, sports works its evil magic the very best upon

the exact segment of the population that could be expected to cause the

most trouble should a rebellion break out: Young Males.

“They’re strong. They’re quick. They’re unruly. They’re clever. Whatta

ya say we just go ahead and hypnotize ‘em and be done with it?”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

And the Evil Dictator said: “Let there be sports.”

And there was sports.

And the Evil Dictator saw that it was good and rejoiced in his heart,

for he knew that his reign would be long and fruitful.

Or something like that.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Sportsguy and his buddies were screaming

at the television, spewing a spittle of beer and Fritos all over

themselves, even as Sportsguy’s wife was fuming in the kitchen,

considering the knife drawer with homicidal thoughts in mind.

Sportsguy’s wife is a complete idiot, and has gotten every last thing

that a fucked up prom queen deserves in life, but that doesn’t keep

Sportsguy from being a Particularly Complete Idiot when it comes to

women.

Oh no, not at all.

Aside from figuring out that a certain breed of Brainless Busty Babes

seems drawn to jocky guys who wear silly uniforms, Sportsguy is

Completely Clueless when it comes to women. Fortunately for Sportsguy,

it’s more than enough that he spend the time in the weight room and on

the field to cultivate a nice jock body. Our Brainless Busty Babe will

be drawn to Sportsguy like a moth to a flame. The bitch ain’t smart, as

if you need me to tell you that. These are Package People and aside

from a nice exterior, they’re really not interested in the substance

within.

I suppose that for a few golden years in their late teens and very

early twenties, they’re having quite the time of it in bed.

But after that, the jig’s up in a Big Way.

Sportsguy lives for The Game.

When The Game includes Brainless Busty Babes and you’re a Brainless

Busty Babe, then it’s fun to play.

But there’s a catch. You must REMAIN a Brainless Busty Babe.

And as anybody who’s watched one of those fifteen year olds with the

size 38-D tits grow a little older well knows, she WILL remain

Brainless, she MAY remain Busty, but she WILL NOT remain a Babe.

What she WILL do is swell up like the Hindenburg. Especially around the

ass. All the cleavage in the world will not serve to mask the fact that

she’s got a butt so wide she’s starting to have trouble getting through

the door.

When this happens, things begin to go sour in a big way for both of

them.

In the first place, that newly-emergent gargantuan ass is Sportsguy’s

karmic payback for being such a relentless idiot.

In the second place, our Brainless Busty Blubberbutt has now made the

horrifying discovery that Sportsguy regards her as nothing more than

something to clean up the mess he leaves all over the place, a

convenient object to vent his rage and frustrations on, and Pussy Of

Last Resort.

Sportsguy WILL continue to screw her, but only after verifying that

every last semi-attractive female within a full tank’s radius will NOT

screw him.

To call Sportsguy unfaithful is to massively understate the situation.

Fortunately (perhaps) for our Brainless Busty Blubberbutt, Sportsguy

has done a little morphing too.

All those years on the couch, beer in hand, haven’t been kind to

Sportsguy. SportsGUY has become SportsGUT.

This causes Sportsgut to strike out every last time when it comes to

attempting to cheat on his wife.

This may, or may not be a good thing.

The net result is two unpleasantly fat individuals, neither of whom

particularly like the other, sweating and grunting in bed in a mostly

futile attempt to experience a bit of the happiness that was

irrevocably lost many years and many pounds ago.

Sportsgut and Blubberbutt have by now had children, all of whom loathe

and detest their parents with an especial venom.

Sportsgut and Blubberbutt, having been less well endowed with

intelligence than most of us in the first place, have turned out to

possess no parenting skills whatsoever.

The children of this unholy union bear all the scars of this

unfortunate set of circumstances.

Sportsgut teaches his boys to be selfish chauvinistic pigs in an effort

to recreate his Lost Childhood, and Blubberbutt teaches her girls to be

selfish manipulative bitches in an effort to recreate her own Lost

Childhood.

Reference my previous essay on “The Spawning And Nurturement of Assholes” for more on this unfortunate subject.

Eventually, the Grim Reaper must come and take what’s his.

Sportsgut and Blubberbutt may be gone, but their legacy lives on.

So raise a glass to the Glory of the Home Team! For God! For School!

For Country! Hurrah!